


Scenery

by kirschtrash



Series: Musical Musings [12]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alive Marco Bott, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Art Enthusiast Marco, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Mush, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Music, Jean Kirstein & Eren Yeager Friendship, Jean Kirstein Being an Idiot, Jean is just fuckin smitten, JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2020, M/M, Marco has a mullet because he can, POV Jean Kirstein, Strangers to Lovers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and so am i
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28640070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirschtrash/pseuds/kirschtrash
Summary: Getting used to the world's "new normal" was something Jean Kirschtein was having trouble with. In fact, he had reassured himself that he might never feel that sense of normality ever again.Perhaps what he needed was a change in scenery - and it just so happened to be brought in quite a unique turn of events, featuring a man who loved finding beauty in works of art; someone who had stars on his skin, and warmth in his eyes.
Relationships: Marco Bott & Jean Kirstein, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Series: Musical Musings [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/321950
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15
Collections: JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2020





	Scenery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firegrilled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firegrilled/gifts).



> Here's my gift to [firegrilled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firegrilled/pseuds/firegrilled) \- a fluffy dose of strangers falling in love. Something we all need in life. Hope you guys enjoy it! Lemme know if you have any feedback <3
> 
> [Inspired by "Scenery" by Taehyung~](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f3YhK-oZmY8)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://kirschtrash.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kirschtrash) if u wanna scream with me about stuff

“What would you like to order, mister?”

The kind voice forced my stare off of the menu pamphlet I held. I looked up and locked eyes with a pair of bright blue ones, framed with strands of blond hair. Those might have captivated me any other day, perhaps even taken my breath away - but this time, something was blatantly different: right below her eyes, I spotted the outline of a face-mask. The mere sight of it invoked in me a gut-wrenching feeling, as if something tranquil inside of me was deeply disturbed. It felt strange, out-of-place, and quite uncomfortable.

“Ah, mister,” the girl called out again, words still laced with kindness, albeit with a bit more insistence. “Have you decided your order yet?”

“Oh, r-right,” I stuttered, realizing that I may have been holding up the line for the past minute or so. “Uh, I’d like to order mixed tea - to go, please.”

“Alright - coming right up!”

After paying the till and thanking the waitress - ‘ _Krista_ ’ was written on her name-tag - I took my paper cup and stepped aside. The surface was warm to the touch, and I gently blew across the top, before I took a tentative sip.

The warmth was welcome, after three whole days of continuous snowfall, and the taste was alright. I was no tea connoisseur, so I had no way of knowing how spectacular the flavor was.  
Nevertheless, I relished a few more sips, and glanced around me, seeing what this new café was all about. It had opened up just two weeks ago, with humble promotions featuring appetizing confectionary items and beverages placed at the store-front. Beyond their enticing baked goods, the cafe’s interior was quite welcoming: minimalistic, yet amiable with its warm colors and lighting. Considering how COVID-19 had practically banished people to their homes, seeing more than half of the tables inside filled with people showed that business was doing pretty well.

The thought of a small business like this flourishing in post-pandemic standards was a breath of fresh air - but what soured the scenery was the sight of people wearing masks; customers, waiters, even children. It was quite comical how everyone was wearing practically the same kind of blue surgical mask, myself included. It was strange how that mask united us all in such a cruel way, in such cruel circumstances. Of course, it was comforting to know that people were taking the right measures to stay safe - and yet… that feeling of being part of some dystopian era refused to leave me. Even though quarantine was long over, isolation stuck with me like a parasite.

Ah, there was that gut-wrenching feeling again.

I had no way of knowing what that feeling of sheer discomfort meant; maybe it was just me coming to terms with the extreme way things had to change ever since the virus struck planet Earth, without any foresight, how the very fabric of society had to adjust so drastically just to ensure its survival. Or maybe it was because of the way everyone still managed to operate so... regularly; couples were chatting as usual, friends were laughing together normally - hell, even the children were as giddy as ever. Was it so because they had finally gotten used to this “new normal” of ours? Or were they just good at hiding their unease?

All I knew was that after almost two years, this new definition of normalcy had not set in. At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if it never happened.

Shaking my head, I took another larger sip of my tea, making sure that the incoming heat stung away such intrusive thoughts. For the most part, it worked; I zoned back into the present, and spotted a free table at the corner of the café. Propping up the collar of my black coat, I made my way through the scattered tables and chairs. I almost reached my destination - but then, something caught my eye.

It was subtle, but vibrant enough that it stood out even in my peripheral vision. Looking towards my left, I spotted an entire wall covered with paintings of all sizes: some fit into neat squares the size of tissue paper, while others spanned across larger rectangular portraits and landscapes. But among them all, one particular painting intrigued me the most - so much so that I realized my feet were carrying me forward before my mind had even made a concrete decision.

As I walked closer, the picture became crystal clear: standing approximately four feet tall and three feet wide, it dominated all the rest of the cluttered paintings - not because of its size, but rather because of its colors.

Well, I’d be more accurate if I said _color_ , for it was only yellow I could see dominating the picture: there were slight variations as one stroke melted into the other, with jagged lines painted in with a mixture of grey and white. If I could decipher the shape it was trying to imitate, or the figure it was trying to replicate, then by all means I would have shared some kind of insight. However, I was having trouble making any sense of it.

Just then, a voice from the outside interrupted my stream of thought:

“It’s captivating, isn’t it?”

It was so sudden that I almost spilled my tea everywhere, and thankfully I avoided that mishap. I glanced to my right, and saw a young man, standing a few inches taller than me. He was wearing a mask too, while his hands were tucked deep into his khaki pockets. His hair was a mess of black strands falling in front of his forehead, and extending down till the back of his neck, perhaps mimicking a mullet of sorts. I couldn’t make anything of his eyes, however - simply because he was too busy staring at the same painting I was.

Taking my silence as an answer, the stranger continued: “So far not one person has so much as looked at this painting - even though it's larger and brighter than the rest. Kinda silly, huh?”

The man giggled at that, and it was contagious enough that it even made me smile. Feeling friendly, I responded: “Maybe it's because this painting doesn’t really make that much sense. I mean 's just... yellow.”

That made the stranger pause for a few moments, before stepping closer to the painting, not once shifting his line of sight. Then, he said, “I think others just didn’t read in between the lines.”

Now that made me raise an eyebrow. Usually, I didn’t like being puzzled. It was something that drove me away from situations - but standing there, I was much too intrigued to just simply walk away; on the contrary, I matched the stranger’s footsteps, until I was beside him once again.

The man raised his left hand, tracing what seemed to be a jagged line cracking through the painting. “See here - now, this looks quite random from far away, right? But if you look closely, this line is placed exactly off center, just so that it misses our immediate line of sight by just a fraction. And the colors - see the colors! See how the edges are a darker shade of yellow - almost mustard - and then abruptly changes to grey. You can’t see it from afar, but if you look closely here, you can see a bit of red and orange, and even green...”

I might have appreciated those newfound discoveries within the painting myself, things I hadn’t noticed before - but I was too busy looking at the stranger. I was too captivated by the way he got lost within the strokes of that work of art. Just being able to witness such genuine interest was quite… fascinating.

I couldn’t help myself, when I asked: “What do you see?”

The question - as simple as it was - was interesting enough that it made the stranger finally tear his eyes away from the painting. As soon as he turned to face me, my eyes instantly locked with his - brown, deep, shining like starlight.

The man’s answer was instantaneous: “I see a bright plane that’s interrupted abruptly - but not obnoxiously. It feels _dramatic_ … as if the color yellow is fighting against harshly different ones, like grey or red. Sure, you can call it pretentious, but... we’re seeing yellow struggling to show its true self. And in a way, that’s something we all can relate to, one way or another. Don’t you think so?”

With his description, the painting had completely changed form in my mind, for now all the strokes and subtleties had new meaning. However, I didn’t acknowledge it right away - because at that moment, I was completely lost in the stranger’s stare. Even though the man’s mouth was hidden behind a mask, I could tell he was smiling - the crinkled edges of his eyes revealed it all.

My heart skipped a beat, and I’m not sure why. All I knew was that it was hard to look away.

My next question was sudden, but important: “What’s your name?”

That made the stranger giggle again, and I realize in the next moment why: he pointed right at his chest, more specifically at a name-tag that said: ' _Marco Bodt_ '.

“And your name?” he asked next, still smiling.

I answered without skipping a beat: “The name’s Jean. Jean Kirschtein.”

*

My encounter with that one yellow painting happened to be the first of many.

Yes, I managed to make as many excuses as I had to, just to visit that humble café on a daily basis. It had gotten to a point that the employees over there had turned into good acquaintances, people I knew on a first-name basis. Whether it was to enjoy the usual cup of tea, or try out some new special item on the menu, I always found myself inside the café premises, one way or another.

And one way or another, I always found myself loitering around in the cafe’s own little galleria, just to cross paths with Marco Bodt.

There, I would see Marco in his most confident state, as he guided viewers through the mini-gallery, letting them appreciate the various rotating works, make contributions of their own, and even support other up-and-coming artists by purchasing one or two pieces at a time.  
To say he was skilled at his job would be an understatement, especially when it came to the discussions he’d have about the different pieces: he refused to restrict a painting’s expression to just one bland phrase, or just one emotion. He would give people as many interpretations as he could, as if he were viewing every picture with a different lens. He’d even trace their different meanings to life, as if he were a painter in his own right - that explained how exquisitely he'd appreciate each paint stroke, each pencil marking, each charcoal smudge.

I’d simply be part of the crowd, like a spectator looking from the outside in. In other circumstances, that feeling might have been too painful for me; being an outsider had never sat well with me, even though it was something I was much too used to. But with Marco, things were… different.

With Marco, the cold feeling of detachment never plagued me, not when I got to see him glow.

There was no other way to put it. His eyes would glimmer like gold whenever he would uncover yet another layer of meaning hidden within a painting; his voice would pick up in pace ever so slightly, and his hand gestures would become a bit more animated, whenever someone would inquire about a story behind a certain artwork. All such instances pointed towards something a lot more genuine, more precious - something that had to be appreciated. With each passing day, I began to cherish it more and more. Surely enough, I was growing fond of him.

The day I realized that was a significant one - well, for more reasons than one.

It was a day just like any other; I had made my regular order of mixed tea, and casually walked towards the galleria. There, I realized that I was stepping in the middle of an intense discussion Marco was having with three other art-enthusiasts. They were grouped around the same yellow work of art, talking away as they put forth various analyses of the same brush strokes.

I looked on, and waited, not wanting to interrupt their debate. I would have gladly spent my time standing there until the other man was available - but then, I was rudely interrupted by a sharp tug at my collar.

_ Oh, dear no. _

I knew who they were before I even heard their snickers - those were two employees I knew all too well: Ymir and Eren. It was Ymir who was pulling me by my collar, given her advantage in height, while Eren was the one who quickly cleared up a table for three at one end of the café, way too far away from the gallery.

Before I could even protest, I was already forced to sit on the chair, across from the two employees, as if I were part of some cruel interrogation. Even though they wore matching masks, their snide stares were undeniably their own.

My annoyance levels were rising exponentially; it was all I could do before barking out:

“What?”

Silence, of course.

“You guys called me, didn’t you?” I snapped impatiently. “Out with it already!”

“You don’t have to hide it, y’know,” said Ymir, leaning back against her seat.

“Considering that you’re a terrible liar,” chimed in Eren.

Feeling beyond puzzled, I squinted: “What the hell are you guys on about? Don’t you two have to work or something?”

“Look,” Ymir sighed, conveniently ignoring my very valid question. “We know you’re into Marco, okay?”

I stiffened all over. _Is it that obvious?!_

Being stubborn to a fault, I immediately denied: “Wh-what? No! No, I’m not! Why would you guys think that?”

Ymir looked at me as if she wanted nothing more than to fling my entire being out of the window. Instead, she resorted to rolling her eyes so hard she might have seen the back of her head.

“It’s so obvious,” she stressed. “The number of times you’ve ordered the same fucking drink for the past two months-”

Eren added in: “-all just as an excuse to talk to Marco-”

“- it’s pretty obvious around here, my guy. I’m surprised you’re not some medical anomaly for tea-poisoning yet.”

With every passing word of theirs, my face felt more and more warm - at that point I was worried my skin might’ve melted right off my skull.

_There’s no point in me denying it, is there?_ I just pouted like a bratty teenager, folding my arts in front of me. “Alright, let’s say you’re… right. What’s your guys' deal, then?”

Eren folded his arms as well, mirroring my stance as he leaned forward. “We don’t blame you, okay? Marco’s a pretty swell guy - it’s just…” With a pause, he started shaking his head pitifully. “At this rate, you’re not going to get anywhere with him.”

Again, puzzlement surged through me: “What?”

“In case you couldn’t catch plain English: you should ask Marco out. Today.”

My eyebrows rose up so high, I was almost certain they’d have completely fallen off my face. “Huh? N-no way, not today!”

In true Ymir-fashion, she set forth a snarky question of her own: “Okay then, Prince Charming - if not today, when do you plan to profess your undying love, hm?”

I could only respond with my ears turning horribly red. At this point, I was certain they were glowing like tiny Christmas lights. _Jeez._

Eren took my silence as my only response: “See? You’re just gonna keep on delaying it. C’mon, man - we just survived a fuckin’ pandemic; what’s the worst that could happen? You gotta make the perfect moment yourself while you still can, not just wait for it to happen.”

If it were someone else making such a pep-talk about _“making the most of life”_ , I might have replied with a mere roll of my eyes. But when it entailed a chance with a certain someone… it made my heart hammer against my chest.

It made me turn around to glance at Marco. Marco, who was still engrossed in conversation, talking about art and it's meaning. Finding something interesting within the mundane. Appreciating beauty in all its forms.

Something like that had to be cherished, right?

Before I could so much as respond, a sharp commander-esque voice cut through the air:

“Hey, Eren, Ymir! Stop slacking around!”

It was their manager, Levi was his name. His sternness was quite infamous around the café, so much so that even my blood went cold at the sound of his whip-like voice. Both Ymir and Eren swore under their breaths and immediately began to resume their duties, as if they weren’t just lounging around mere moments ago.

Before leaving that table, both employees gave me one stern look that seemed to send out one blatant message: _today_.

When I was left alone, I stared at the cup of tea in his hands. The steam was wafting up, white tendrils curling as if they were alive and well. Its aroma was very subtle, but present nonetheless - maybe this one cup was made with a bit more care. _A little bit of love._

The thought made me smile.

It also gave me somewhat of a steely resolve; wherever it came from, it was certainly strong enough to make me get up and walk towards the gallery with a new motive in mind.

But as soon as I reached there, Marco was nowhere to be seen.

Confused, I looked around, trying to find that familiar mullet, those familiar eyes, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. I might have given up entirely if it weren’t for a voice cutting through the air:

“...alright - have a good evening, Marco!”

It was then that I turned around and saw Marco clad in a yellow winter coat, stepping out of the café doors and into the snow.

My heart dropped in my chest. It was as if that special moment of mine just walked away, before I could make it my own.

Looking back towards the counter, I spotted Ymir and Eren, both of whom were pulling out cartons from a storage unit. They both realized what just happened, and consoled me in their own ways: Eren just stuck out a thumbs up for me, while Ymir ran a finger across her neck, promising me that I was dead meat by her hands. Lovely.

I looked down at my cup of tea, and realized it had gone completely cold. And so had my resolve to make a cherished moment my own.

My chest deflated as I let out a sigh. With three huge gulps I quickly finished my beverage, and left the café premises as well. The cold wind outside struck my skin sharply, but I took a deep breath regardless. Plumes of fog pushed through my mask, vanishing into thin air. Seeing the sparse crowds around me, I feel the cold tendrils of isolation creeping up again. The only time I didn’t feel that frigid embrace was when I was around Marco.

The realization was sudden, but it made my chest ache a bit.  _ I’m much too different than Marco, who exuded nothing but warmth. _

With that familiar dull ache permeating my heart, I made my way back to my house - after all, I had nowhere else to be. The thick blankets of snow crunched beneath my feet, and I had to be careful to avoid any slippery slopes and edges. If I had kept my eyes trained to the ground, I would have easily made my way back to my house solely through memory.

But then, I might not have seen the miracle walking a few feet in front of me.

When I looked up, I saw a man with a familiar mullet disheveled in the winter wind, and a bright yellow coat - something that a very familiar café employee was wearing a short while ago.

_ Oh my God. _

When it finally set in that it was indeed Marco who was walking in front of me, my heart started racing again. It felt as if some Capital-G God had just placed the man in front of me - _don’t fuck this up now_ , He seemed to say.

Summoning all and any steely resolve I could muster, I made the decision: I’ll make my move as soon as I saw Marco stop at some point. And so I trailed behind slowly and surely, making sure the best chance didn’t fly out the window.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. I realized that Marco was yet to divert his path at all. In fact, the path he was walking on was quite… recognizable. I couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

Well, I didn’t need to put a finger on anything, because the realization struck my face like a full-fledged punch when the path opened up towards a very familiar apartment complex. _My_ apartment complex.

So I had been living in the same place as Marco Bodt, and I didn’t notice it for two entire months. How cruel did the world have to be to play a practical joke on me like that?

I genuinely wanted to scream, for a number of reasons, but  I suppressed the urge nonetheless. Grasping for whatever was left of my resoluteness, I stumbled through the reception area, and by the time I had reached the elevators, Marco was already there, waiting. He stood there with his hands deep in his coat pockets, and his hair still a dark mess. His mask was still covering his mouth, and all I wanted in that very moment was to see him smile-

Just then, he turned to his right and noticed me standing there. A sense of familiarity dawned over him, and his eyes scrunched up with pure glee.

“Oh, hi Jean! What brings you here?”

Realizing that I must have been gaping like a breathless fish, I shut my mouth up, and responded:

“Oh, I- uh, I live here.”

“Oh, so do I! Which floor?”

“The seventh…”

“Ah, I live on the sixth. Wow, that’s so strange… we’ve been living in the same apartment this entire time, and we didn’t even know!”

_Just my fucking luck_ , I thought to myself.

But then, Marco giggled. “Well, what a small world we live in, huh?”

It took every fiber of my being to avoid floating in the air, considering the innumerable amount of butterflies fluttering in my belly.  Before I could say anything, the elevator door opened, and we both stepped inside. We pressed our respective buttons, and then waited in silence.

The number glowed menacingly at the top of the elevator: _0\. 1. 2. 3…_

The closer the number got to 6, the harder my heart hammered against my chest.

_ He’s right beside you, for fuck’s sake. Say something - ask him out! Before it's too late! _

One glance his way, however, and my resolve began to crumple again, like tissue paper in a rainstorm; this up close, I could see his cheeks flushed a dusty pink, dark eyelashes bordering his eyes, warmth radiating throughout his entire despite the winter wind… it was hard to even consider myself in the same league as him.

As if God were punishing me, the number instantly flashed red at Floor No. 6. The elevator halted to a stop, and the doors slid open.

Marco turned towards me one last time, as he said: “Well, let’s meet at the café again - take care, Jean!”

And with that, he walked out.

That look he gave, as he bid me farewell… It was warm, and it reminded me of the warmth I felt the first day my path crossed with his, the day he told me how that strange yellow painting had a lot more to it than what meets the eye.

That warmth was enough to spark something severe in me; an urge that made my gut twist, but not in a way that felt isolating. For the first time ever, it made me feel drawn to someone. To Marco.

_ He is a treasure I can’t lose. _

As if an animalistic urge suddenly kicked into gear within me, I stuck out my leg to keep the elevator doors from closing. The metal hit my shin hard, and I grimaced - but it worked on the sensors well enough, so that the elevator doors slid open once more.  
Tripping out, I turned to my right and saw Marco inserting his keys into his door. But he stopped as soon as he noticed me there in the middle of the hallway, most likely resembling a fool.

But I gulped dryly, and spoke first: “W-what if we meet somewhere outside the café?”

That seemed to have caught Marco with confusion. “Huh?” he asked.

It was then that I realized - the reason he was confused was because I had decided to shout right into my fucking mask. Ripping it off, I repeated myself:

“Let’s meet outside the café someday- like- like a date. I’m asking you out on a date.”

The silence that followed ran just a second too long, and by then I was sure I had messed everything up - but I kept still nonetheless, with my hands balled into fists. _It’s worth a try._

As if I were finally granted relief by the world, the edges of Marco’s eyes crinkled ever so softly. He then pulled his mask down to his chin, and it was then that I realized something profound: that was the first time I was seeing his entire face.

And God, was I glad I did.

My mind was scrambling to take it all in, all at once; his brown eyes glimmered like starlight, and his cheeks became impossibly redder the more he blushed. A few seconds later, I could see the freckles all over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose; each of those freckles seemed so perfectly placed, like an artist's deliberate strokes that could make any painting feel ever so enchanting. And speaking of enchanting - his _smile_... God, was it a sight to behold:  it was bright, it was warm, and it was full of something precious, something I couldn’t wait to treasure.

My brain might have fried up entirely if it weren’t for Marco breaking in:

“Can that ‘ _someday_ ’ be today?”

_ Huh? _

I blinked twice, and Marco chuckled at my utter bewilderment. “I mean, I’m free right now, and I was in the mood for some shitty Christmas movies. And you sound like great company to have. So if that’s up your alley…”

My cheeks were burning up, and I could tell I was smiling like a complete idiot. But at that moment, I couldn't care less. I didn’t even have to think twice before giving my answer: “Yeah. Yeah, I’d love that.”

The smile that Marco gave next was the universe’s way of reassuring me that I had made the right decision.

* * *

“What’s on your mind, Jean?”

The voice brings me back to the present: back in my bedroom, underneath the sheets. Beside me, I feel warmth - the kind you feel when you’re embracing someone you love.

I look to my right, and see a familiar man with freckles dotting his skin like constellations, all over his cheeks, down his neck, even across his bare shoulders. He is staring at me closely, with a sweet smile on his lips.

He asks again: “What’s on your mind?”

There are a million and one ways of telling him that I was thinking about him, him in all his glory; how his support makes me want to constantly be a better version of myself, how his patience makes me feel worth something, how his love makes me feel complete. There are infinitely many ways of letting him know how much he means to me.

There are so many ways I could show Marco that he’s my miracle. My miracle of six years and counting.

But then, my eyes land on the painting behind him - a very, very familiar one. Just one look at it makes me feel warm again - the same kind of warmth I remember feeling back at that humble café.

“Yellow,” is my answer.

Marco cocks his head to one side, confused.

I just smile, raising a hand to brush away some of the strands that had fallen over his forehead. I place my palm against his cheek, and almost by instinct, Marco leans into my touch. He grabs my hand with his own, and as soon as he does, the golden band around his ring finger glints in the morning light. That sight always makes my heart flutter.

“Yellow,” I say again. “And how much I love that color, ever since you came into my life.”

As if a switch had just been flipped in his mind, Marco breaks into a smile as bright as the Sun. It makes my heart overflow with joy, and it is all I can do before I’m closing the distance between us, and pressing my lips against his.

**Author's Note:**

> They watched Princess Switch parts 1 and 2. There, I said it.


End file.
